Nissim ben Aramiah, a speaker of many languages, including Latin, is a Judean member of Herod the Great’s inner circle where he is, among other duties, his spymaster. When he failed to find the Christ Child in Bethlehem where he had accompanied the Magi for that express purpose, he is ordered to lead the raid that became known as the slaughter of the innocents. Although accustomed to Herod’s deadly violence, he is mysteriously stricken when the Roman commander tells him “The child is dead.”

Chapter 10

Amid the bleeding and the death, the fires and the cries, the soldiers fled back to their mounts and a different rendezvous. The outriders would scatter, but the assault forces would pointedly head southwest. Any witness would see them returning, it would appear, to the desert. But they would then take a few hill-tracks to the valley of Sorek near the Place of the Wasps where all would rendezvous. Here the evidence of the raid, including most of the plunder and all the costumes, would be burnt and buried and the wounded tended. Then the raiders, now remounted as Herod’s soldiers, would leisurely patrol again, some even, audaciously, joining the newly arrived soldiers in Bethlehem. Eventually, group by group, they would return to their cities. The soldiers would get their gold and the Gauls would receive their promotions along with select and untraceable pieces of the loot. Herod would have taught me a lesson and could rejoice in his revenge, while the people of Bethlehem would get burials wrapped in a message. For as clever as we tried to be, I was sure some of them knew where the ‘raid’ had originated. With the ears of soldiers in their town, and the shadow of Herod looming over them, they could not speak of it above a whisper if at all.

And as for me…

The child is dead.

I rode alone on my horse, north toward the sacred city in the late afternoon sun.

The child is dead.

The wise men had come this far to bring the gift of adoration and the symbols of divine kingship. And for what?

The child is dead.

I allowed myself to be a part of Herod’s scheme. I could say I had no choice, but, that was another lie. I saw the blood, I saw the blood, I saw the innocent blood, and I spilled innocent blood. And for what?

The child is dead.

And why did a child, this child have to die? Who was he?

The

Child

Is

Dead.

I rode west of the great walls towards the Hippicus Gate. The sun began to set, and soon all the gates would be closed. I could always enter the city, but not this night.

I was far enough west of the city that I was riding across the plain where the great caravan had camped. There was no evidence of it ever having been there. The scavengers, rag-pickers, and lepers had long since removed anything of any value. I halted long enough for the night to trap me, then, under stars alone, I turned right, due east, toward the walls.

I halted at the foot of the grisly hill we called the Skull: Golgotha. I dismounted, and led my mare up to the execution ground. She tried to rear from the smell of death, but I held the reins tightly, and calmed her, though, I too, recoiled from this place of stench. But this is where I had to be this night.

I slid my sword from its sheath. The starlight showed the stain of blood. Bile rose in my throat, and I cast it down, hoping to blunt or shatter it. Instead, improbably, impossibly, it found a crack in the rock, and lodged there, the haft rising like a small tree on the barren rock. I raised my head to the distant lights of heaven, lifted my arms and shouted:

Deus meus Deus meus ut quid derelequisti me?

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